


Paris brille ce soir lumineux (paris shines bright this evening)

by irish_gold



Series: paris, niall, and cheese [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Louis' there for like a second, M/M, Paris (City), Paris!AU, i didn't know where to add the rest of the boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irish_gold/pseuds/irish_gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The view of Paris is ugly from his and Louis’ shared flat window. All that Harry could see was concrete pavement and buildings seeming to never end. The only beauty he ever caught when gazing from the window was at night. When the pavement is being lit by the lamps above and the moon reflects a little bit of light on corners of the street. Other than that Harry sees no other beauty from his window.</p><p>(or: Harry’s been living in Paris for seven months and hasn’t explored the city since he arrived there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris brille ce soir lumineux (paris shines bright this evening)

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd because i'm lazy to get a beta. i looked over it about twice, but if there are any mistakes don't be afraid to point them out to me. anyways feedback is much appreciated. enjoy. xx

 

Harry moves to France four months after his nineteenth birthday. He and Louis hop on a plane that takes off in the middle of the night and wander the streets of France till they find a cheap hotel that they could crash in.

 

They end up staying in that hotel room for two days straight looking through French newspapers, searching for flats that they’ll be able to move in and won’t have to pay too much.

 

(Louis wouldn’t want to admit it but their idea of moving to France right before they could even start Uni wasn’t the greatest idea they’d ever had.)

 

_

 

They spend days going from flat to flat searching for the right one that’ll suit both their fancies and isn’t too expensive for two broke teenagers who have no jobs or any money saved up.

 

They find the perfect place in a shady area of downtown Paris. The walls of the complex are anything but white, the floor boards creak every time someone moves just a centimeter, and has two small rooms that only wide enough for one tiny bed and a dresser by the window.

 

It isn’t at all what Harry had envisioned when Louis had asked him to move to France with him but it certainly was better than nothing. Harry liked it. Liked the idea of calling the small flat _his_ , being able to sign the contract papers and get handed a pair of keys by the landlord.

 

The landlord is an old man who looks anything but nice, he smiles at Louis and Harry when he hands them the keys, he tells them in a thick French accent, ‘Welcome to Paris boys, we hope your stay here is everything you imagined it to be.’ The both thank the landlord with dazed smiles and.

 

Their stay in Paris is anything but what they imagined it to be.

 

Louis and Harry struggle to find jobs and live off of day old cheese and tea Louis is able to get from the grocers shop he works at.

 

Harry doesn’t know how they do it, how they are able to live off of cheese and paycheques with a small amount of money that surely won’t even be able to buy them a good weeks’ worth of food. Harry doesn’t know how they do it but they do.

 

They make it work; pay the rent, though late, and if they skip a day or two of meals to pay the rent well then that’s only a coincidence.

 

_

 

Harry finds himself wandering away from the streets of downtown Paris. Walks through the city that he’s lived in for seven months but seemingly had never actually toured through. He continues to walk through the streets even when the sun had gone down and the lights of the lamps on the street turn on.

 

He walks till the sole of his feet are aching; he stops in front of a building, sits on the bench across from it and takes a seat on the far side of the bench leaving the other side empty for a short slim man to sit, he nods at Harry when he takes a seat beside him, and just _watches._

 

‘Paris is a beautiful place, is it not?’ Says the man beside him, Harry turns to him, watches as the stranger smiles at him before turning his gaze back on the city, ‘In fact, all of France is beautiful. A lovely country it is.’ The stranger says again, he mutters the last sentence.

_He has blue eyes._ Harry doesn’t understand why that’s all he notices of the stranger, he doesn’t know why all he seems to see are the endless blue eyes that are the strangers and, ‘It is.’ He says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Harry can’t think of any words to describe the beauty he has seen in this country. So he settles for agreeing with the stranger.

 

‘Is this the only city you have seen of France?’ The stranger asks him, he doesn’t turn to look at Harry instead keeps his gaze on the building in front of the them, with lights turned on in every room, he quiets down waiting for Harry to respond. ‘Yes.’ Harry says.

 

He doesn’t expect to hear the stranger to chuckle at him, because he expected a snarl or a scoff from the stranger who seemed to have been just in love with France as he was, ‘You’re missing out then, mate, you may believe what you hear of others that Paris, this city of lights, is the beauty of the country. And it is. But Paris is only a small fraction of this wondrous country.’

 

Harry looks down at his feet, ‘Are you a native then?’ he asks the stranger, _no tourist or foreigner would ever talk like this about another country that was not theirs,_ he thinks to himself.

 

The stranger shakes his head, ‘I am nothing more than an admirer of the country.’

 

Harry gapes at the stranger, looks at him with an astonished expression, ‘You talk of this country as if it were your own.’

 

‘Many have told me that, mate.’ Is all the stranger says, he looks like he wants to say more, _Harry_ wants him to say more. He wants to hear the stranger talk more of what he thinks of France, wants to know more of what this stranger says because _somehow this stranger has left me wanting to hear more._

 

‘Where is it that you’re from then? Now that I think of it your accent is nothing like a Frenchman speaking English?’ Harry wants to hit himself for not registering the accent the stranger had before.  Had he been too entranced with those deep blue eyes that he seemed to have been oblivious to everything else of the strangers’ features?

 

‘Ireland.’

_He’s blond._ Harry thinks, his gaze wanders to the wisps of blond hair that had gone astray from the harsh winds blowing at them, _he must be blond._ But he’s not too sure, can’t tell if the dark brown from his roots are his natural colour of if the cornstalk blond at the length of his hair is natural.

 

‘Are you blond?’ He blurts out without even thinking, he curses himself internally and mentally slaps himself for asking the stranger a stupid question.

 

Harry is quick to add, ‘Pardon me for my bluntness I didn’t mean—‘

 

The stranger chuckles and shakes his head again, ‘I am not naturally blond, and you can tell by the roots of me hair.’ He runs his fingers through his hair mussing it up more than it had been before.

 

Harry wants to grab the strangers hand, push it down from his hair, so he could run his own hands through the strangers’ hair. He could even imagine now how soft the hair must feel, can imagine being able to make out every individual hair because it seems _so thin._

 

He doesn’t do that. Instead watches as the stranger continues to run his pale fingers through his head full of hair.

 

The stranger notices Harry looking at him and a blush of rosy pink dusts over his impossibly pale cheekss. _Beautiful_ is what Harry thinks, _this stranger is impeccably beautiful._

 

He doesn’t know what comes over him but he sees his hand moving to touch the pink of the strangers’ cheek, his finger traces the soft bump that was the strangers’ cheek bone. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ Harry says, ‘So much more beautiful than any city in France.’

 

The stranger doesn’t say anything instead he looks away from Harry’s eyes and glances at his shoes, ‘You are very wrong. My beauty is nothing compared to that beauty of France—‘ Harry interrupts the stranger, removing his hands from the strangers face.

 

‘Do you not believe me?’

 

‘Why should I?’

 

‘Because I do not lie.’ Harry says.

 

‘Every man lies.’

 

‘I do not lie when it comes to beauty.’

 

The stranger looks at Harry and smiles ‘Are you an artist then? A painter? A sculptor?’ The stranger asks him.

 

Harry smiles at him, leaning down he puts his lips on the strangers’ ear and says, ‘Simply an admirer.’

 

_

 

Harry doesn’t see the stranger in the next few days, doesn’t see him for a whole week, and Harry curses himself for not getting the strangers’ name or number. He doesn’t know why or how asking more information of the stranger slipped his mind.

 

He doesn’t go back to the place he met the stranger, instead he continues on with his life in the city of Paris, pushes himself to continue the routine he’d created for himself before he met the stranger. And somehow it’s easy. It’s easy for Harry to do what he’d always done because _I can’t just stop living._

 

He doesn’t stop thinking of the stranger though, doesn’t stop thinking of the dark blue eyes that looked as if they changed colour when met with the light, _can’t_ stop thinking of the way the stranger blushes as if he simply put a rosy pink dust powder over the small of his cheeks, and.

 

Harry sees him everywhere.

 

Everything reminds Harry of the stranger.

 

‘And what has you so quiet on this fine evening, Harold?’ Louis asks him, he’s molding clay into something; Harry hadn’t been listening to him when he told him what he was going to make, and he’s leaning forward onto the clay not taking his eyes from what he was doing.

 

‘Nothing.’ Harry responds he looks down at his own hands. Clenches his fists when he remembers the way his finger traced the strangers’ face.

 

‘Something certainly has to have made you this quiet. What can it be? Have you fallen in love with a French voyeur? Has the lady caught your eyes from far away? Are you wallowing in self-pity because _of how unfair society is?_ ’ Louis asks him again. He’s grinning down at the clay, probably giving himself a mental high five for his joke.

 

Harry doesn’t respond right away, simply turns his face away from Louis, and looks out the window.

 

The view of Paris is ugly from his and Louis’ shared flat window. All that Harry could see was concrete pavement and buildings seeming to never end. The only beauty he ever caught when gazing from the window was at night. When the pavement is being lit by the lamps above and the moon reflects a little bit of light on corners of the street. Other than that Harry sees no other beauty from his window.

 

Louis always told him otherwise, tells Harry every time he complains about the ugly view that _there is nothing but beauty out there Haz you just don’t look close enough._ Harry’s always scoffed when he says that and tells Louis that the only reason he can see beauty is because he’s an artist. He sees beauty in anything and everything, even if it is not beautiful.

 

(Louis just laughs at him and says ‘true, I certainly am an amazing artist,’)

 

‘Haz. Oi mate! I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes. It’s rude to ignore your best mate.’ Louis says bringing him back to reality.

 

Harry turns back to look at him and notices that in the five minutes Harry had dazed off Louis had finished his sculpture. It was small but detailed nonetheless.

 

He doesn’t know what it is, ‘What have you sculpted this time?’ He asks him because _he’d like to know what had been made from clay._

 

‘I’m not done yet but it’s supposed to be a miniature version of Liam.’ Harry fully turns to him now and starts walking where Louis is sat and takes the molded clay in his hands, he grimaces when he realises that it was still a bit wet.

 

It looked nothing like a human, he tells Louis this.

 

Louis snatches the sculpture from Harry’s hand and scoffs, ‘Of course not you twat, it’s not even done. Now shoo. You’re ruining my inspiration with that face of yours.’

 

Harry rolls his eyes but says nothing back, he’s known for years now that talking back to Louis isn’t worth the trouble, (not unless you like to banter about a small subject for days.) He takes Louis’ silence for his cue to leave and walks out of the small flat.

_

 

(He curses himself when he steps foot on the pavement for not bringing a coat.)

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going once he walks past the only two streets Harry’s every known. All he knows is that he’s hungry and he doesn’t think his stomach will be able to bear day old cheese and stale tea again.

 

He walks through the moist pavement, stepping over puddles and cracks in it.

_

 

Harry finally stops in front of a bakery, a small one that would have gone unnoticed if you weren’t looking for it specifically.

 

Harry walks into the shop inhaling the smell of fresh pastries just out of the oven and the scent of fruits being baked into bread and. _This is certainly the scent of France._

 

He doesn’t realise he’s just standing in front of the door when a little French lady, from behind the counter, speaks to him. ‘Vous allez bien? Allez-vous rester là toute la journée?’ She asks him in French.

 

He doesn’t understand a word she had just said to him, he tries to remember something, _anything,_ his French teacher had taught him when he had been taking the class. ‘Erm… Um… Mon nom est Harry… Je ne parle pas bien le français’ He hopes to God that he told her the right thing.

 

She laughs quietly and motions for Harry to walk closer to her, ‘I am called Eva. What do you like to order?’ She asks in her thick French accent, Harry smiles at her.

 

‘Tea and a chocolate biscuit? I don’t know how to say that in French. Um…’ He trails off looking to see if the woman had understood him. She looks at him with a confused expression.

 

‘Il aimerait un biscuit au chocolat et le thé.’ Harry and the little French lady turn to the person who’d just walked in.

 

A small smile made its way on Harry’s lip, the blond stranger from before smiled right at him, ‘Bonjour Eva. Comment vas-tu?’ He asks the French lady before turning to Harry and saying, ‘Been a while, hasn’t it?’ Harry nods his head.

 

‘Je vais bien. Comment allez-vous, Niall?’ The lady asks the stranger— _Niall—his name was Niall._

 

‘J'ai été mieux.’ _Niall_ responds, the lady hums then turns back to walk into the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with _Niall._

 

‘Thanks.’ Harry breaths, ‘For… Um, you know…That.’

 

Niall laughs at him and nods his head, ‘No problem mate, though I think you’ll have to study up on your French if you plan to live here for the rest of your life.’

 

Harry blushes and looks down at his feet, ‘I’m not the best when it comes to speaking in another language that is not English. I failed French twice in a row.’

 

‘Maybe I could teach you.’

 

(Niall doesn’t end up teaching him French that day, but he certainly does end up giving Harry his number.)

_

 

 

 


End file.
